Poetry

Purge

Purge In the cold light of morning, the house sighs— rooms stripped of the clutter that clung like old regret. Each drawer opened, a silent confession, papers yellowed, photographs faded, the weight of

Their

Their hands, once dusted with summer’s earth, Now trace the quiet edges of memory’s hearth, Where laughter lingers in the amber light Of tea‑stained mugs and soft, forgiving night. Their voices, a

Sweet

Sweet is the first note of sunrise, A honeyed sigh on amber light, When laughter melts like caramel And childhood tastes of strawberry‑red. It lives in tea‑time biscuits, In scones split thick with clotted cream, In

Ahead

Beyond the bend of quiet lanes, Where shadows stretch and daylight wanes, We lift our eyes to what lies ahead, A promise stitched in quiet thread. Each step a measured, steady tread, Upon

Nasty

Nasty In the dank back‑alley of a fog‑laden night, A nasty wind sighs through cracked panes, Turning tea leaves to bitter dregs, And the lamplight flickers like a reluctant apology. It creeps into

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